


That's why they call me mr. fahrenheit

by SparrowFlight246



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Son Relationship, Fever, Fever Dreams, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, Peter Parker Whump, Sensory Overload, Sickfic, monster sickfic with some bromance peppered in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:34:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowFlight246/pseuds/SparrowFlight246
Summary: Peter’s on fire.He wakes up fast, and before he even gets the chance to feel the pain, the aches, the dizziness, he feels the heat. It’s all encompassing, a raging inferno blooming from within him and burning him up from the inside out, and god, it——god, ithurts.-Peter gets whammied by a 24-hour superbug, and Tony’s left to keep him alive until tomorrow morning.It sounds a hell of a lot easier than it ends up being.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Tony Stark, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 68
Kudos: 478





	That's why they call me mr. fahrenheit

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Don't Stop Me Now by Queen, much love to Jaysong for beta reading, and thank you so much for clicking!

_11:57 AM_

Peter’s on fire.

He wakes up fast, and before he even gets the chance to feel the pain, the aches, the dizziness, he feels the heat. It’s all encompassing, a raging inferno blooming from within him and burning him up from the inside out, and god, it—

—god, it _hurts._

The pain he missed before slams into him like a truck, aching and throbbing and _burning_ like nothing he’s felt before. His head pounds, everything around him too bright and too loud and he tries to turn his face away from the light but the fabric under his cheek is like sandpaper against his skin and a whimper drags from his throat, too high against his ears and what the _fuck,_ what happened?

An instant after he moves, the cacophony of sound increases. There’s a voice that might be talking to him, pitched low but still so, so loud, and a shrill beeping slicing through a harsh background composed of the rough hissing of equipment and the building whirs of machines and he presses his face harder to the pillow, desperate to shut it out. 

His breath catches when more voices join the horrible dissonance, his eyes shut tight against the lights. His hands scrabble to cover his ears. Even moving hurts, everything hot and painful and overwhelming, but when a hand lights on his shoulder, far too rough even through the material of his shirt, he doesn’t hesitate to jerk away. 

The beeping speeds up, somehow becoming even louder. He sobs in response as if that could make it go away. His head pounds like it’s falling apart.

 _Stop,_ he thinks, faintly. He doesn’t trust his voice. Doesn’t want to add another sound to this chaos. But he thinks it fervently, desperately, _stop stop stop,_ because Jesus _fuck,_ it’s all too much.

Unfortunately, the hand has a different idea.

Careful fingers return to curl around his wrist, searing bands of heat on his already burning flesh and dear god it’s _worse_ now because there’s no layer of fabric to block each ridge of each fingerprint from digging into his skin and he whines and tries to jerk free but this time the hand holds fast however careful it is.

Peter’s breathing is too shallow. He’s gasping through inhales and exhales so quickly that he can barely feel the air enter his lungs before it’s gone again, overwhelmed and hyperventilating, but dimly, he realizes the beeping has cut out. 

Things begin to slow, then. 

The hand is gentle around his wrist. The voices from before have quieted as well. The light, agonizingly bright even against his closed eyes, dims down to low throb. The world around him is still paralyzingly close and so, so hot, but it’s more manageable now, even if he keeps his ears covered and eyes shut tight.

His next inhale comes steadier than the last. 

Through the still too-loud background noises of the whirring of mechanical things and the breathing of living ones, there’s a soft rustling of movement, and the mattress he’s curled up on dips under a new weight. He tenses up in response but keeps his face pressed into the pillow.

And then a hand settles into his hair. 

It’s gentle, same as the one still wrapped around his wrist, quietly measuring his pulse as he now understands it. The movements it makes are careful and so, so light, brushing through his curls with an infinite amount of caution, as if afraid to hurt him. It’s comforting. 

It’s familiar. 

That’s when it clicks. 

“Mr Stark?” he croaks, and god, even speaking sending waves of pain through his head and he grits his teeth against the volume of his own voice, but then the hand slows.

“Right here, kiddo.” So, so soft. Barely a whisper. Barely a breath. “You with us? Open your eyes for me, bud.”

And oh thank _god._

The relief that courses through him at the fact that he’s safe is dizzying. He must be in the medbay, then. The pillowcase under his cheek is suddenly familiar, and the previously overpowering smell of rubbing alcohol is almost reassuring now. He’d be content to just sit here and bask in that realization despite how deeply, painfully uncomfortable he still is, but then the hand buried in his hair moves, a thumb brushing feather-light over his temple. 

“Eyes open, Peter.”

That sounds like a horrible idea, but he tentatively blinks his eyes open anyway, trying to do as asked. Predictably, he has to slam them closed again as soon as the light reaches them, but the second time around is a little bit better, a little more prepared. Mr Stark, perched on the edge of his bed and slowly coming into focus, gives him a tight, blurry smile when he looks up at him. Peter’s vision is absolutely shot and he’s half blinded even in the dim lighting. He can still tell that the smile doesn’t reach Mr Stark’s eyes.

“There you are,” he murmurs. He sweeps his thumb along Peter’s hairline again. “Feeling like shit, huh?”

God, like he needed the reminder. He’s still burning, fevered flesh over-sensitive against the rough sheets, and every breath Tony takes grates against his ears is like static through a microphone. He doesn’t respond, but something in his expression must offer answer enough because Tony’s eyebrows draw together like they do when he’s worried, a deep line appearing between them.

“Oh, kid,” he sighs. “Shit. Shit, Peter, this just sucks. It all sucks ass.”

Peter blinks up at him. 

Mr Stark sighs again, then resumes stroking his hair. It hurts, just like everything else touching him does, and the warmth of Mr Stark’s hand is like gasoline to the flame, but it still offers too much comfort for Peter to push him away. “You want meds?” Mr Stark asks after a moment, the words well below a whisper.

Fuck yeah he does. He manages a shaky nod and winces when that reignites the pounding in his head, the pillowcase steel wool against his skin. He closes his eyes again, turning his face into Mr Stark’s palm. 

Another long exhale. “Alright then, bear with me here. Sorry in advance.”

He has just enough time for his brows to draw together in disoriented question before the hand at his wrist begins to tug his arm down and he’s too weak to fight it. He gasps in protest as his ear becomes uncovered again, instantaneously allowing the remaining, staggeringly loud sounds of the medbay to flood him, but a new palm presses down and blocks everything out again before he can do more than whimper. 

He jumps at the appearance of the third hand, but Mr Stark only squeezes his wrist a little tighter in reassurance as he eases Peter’s arm flat to the mattress. “Just Rhodey,” he whispers. “Bruce is here too, getting your souped up happy juice cocktail ready.”

“May?” he croaks, the word fire against his throat, but he has to know. She’s supposed to be out of town this weekend. He has no idea how much time has passed since he was last lucid.

The hand around his wrist squeezes again. “Safe.”

“Does she know?”

“Not yet.”

Good. He doesn’t want to worry her. 

The light almost seems to be worse when he gathers the courage to open his eyes again, but now Rhodey’s there beside his bed, kneeling with his free arm resting on the edge of the mattress and offering him a small smile. His hand is gentle against the side of Peter’s head despite how much the contact hurts. “Hey,” he whispers. Peter blinks back at him. “Just a few more minutes until we get you the good drugs, okay? It’s a sedative mix with a painkiller and fever reducer thrown in. Just something to make you a little more comfortable while we figure the rest of this crap out.”

Peter flinches again when there’s a cold swipe at the crook of his arm, and his focus flies over to find Bruce crouched there a little farther down, focused on the task at hand with his glasses slipping down his nose. Mr Stark’s hand moves down from his wrist to wrap around his palm, steady even as his warmth seems to burn a brand into Peter’s skin. “You’re okay, Underoos,” he murmurs. “Easy.”

“Peter?” Bruce speaks up, and Peter’s gaze swings back over to find him watching him, fingertips resting lightly on Peter’s forearm. “This should help with everything you have coming at you, okay? You just sleep for a bit and we’ll handle the rest.”

There’s a hypodermic in his other hand, Peter knows, even as Bruce tries to keep it out of Peter’s line of sight. He almost wants to laugh at that. He literally feels like he’s about to die and they’re still carefully working around his fear of needles, gentle and subtle as they are. 

They’re so great. They always have been.

But god, he feels so sick, and having to take a needle on top of feeling like this is just the cherry on the shitty sundae. His next inhale comes shaky.

He catches his first glimpse of the syringe just as Bruce goes to prep it and forcibly looks away before he can catch another, swallowing hard and wincing against the pain it inflicts. He knows he needs the meds, god, he _wants_ them, but considering how fabric rubbing the hair on his arms the wrong way hurts as violently as it does right now, Peter’s not thrilled about how having an actual needle shoved through his skin is going to feel.

Mr Stark catches his gaze and understands in an instant. Gently, his hold on his hand becomes more firm, and the added weight of Rhodey’s free hand goes to his shoulder, keeping him steady. “Eyes on me, bud,” he whispers. “We’ll be here when you wake up, alright? I’ll be right here. You’re gonna be fine.”

Peter yelps when Bruce sticks him, but the hands on each part of him ease up as soon as the needle is pulled away, going from carefully restraining to comforting in an instant. His breathing’s speeding up again, feeling the sedative tug at his consciousness and it’s a shitty feeling to fight but Mr Stark’s here and Mr Stark’s murmuring reassurances and stroking his hair and telling him that everything’s okay, and Mr Stark wouldn’t lie to him. 

So, when the world begins to fade around him, he lets it. 

***

_8:03 AM_

_(Four hours earlier.)_

“Hey Mr Stark?”

Tony grunts in acknowledgement. 

“Do we know if it’s possible to overdose on caffeine through coffee because I think —don’t give me that face— I think you might be closing in on that point.”

The kid’s watching him from across the kitchen island, perched on a barstool with a glass of orange juice on the countertop in front of him, all energetic and sugared up and young enough that willing consciousness is still easily achieved without drug intervention, the lucky bastard. Tony glares at him.

Peter, long too used to Tony’s pissiness to be fazed, doesn’t falter. “I’m worried for your health,” he says, far too sincerely. 

Tony takes a long drag from the mug in his hand just to watch Peter’s face scrunch up in displeasure over the rim. The coffee is still too hot for that kind of swig, but Peter’s disappointed parent expression is worth the burned tongue. 

“Why must you always hurt the ones who love you the most,” the kid deadpans. 

“It’s decaf,” Tony grumbles, setting aside the mug. He shoots it a mildly disgusted look as it sits there on the countertop, steaming innocently like it’s not a lying cup of betrayal. “Pepper’s already riding my ass about it, I don’t need you jumping on the bandwagon too. I’m about to fall asleep on my fucking feet.”

“All we need is for Rhodey to join the campaign and we’ll have a party,” Peter says. 

Tony’s expression flickers from vaguely disgruntled to straight up warning in a fraction of an instant. “Don’t you dare.”

Peter just grins, the absolute little shit. 

May’s at a conference in Connecticut this weekend that she couldn’t miss, so Peter’s staying at the compound with Tony for the next few days until she’s back. Considering the fact that Peter’s well on his way to becoming more of a permanent fixture around here than the crown molding and Tony has started buying the kid’s favorite kind of cereal in bulk, this whole weekend sleepover shtick is one that’s well practiced. It’s comfortable, and it’s easy, and for that reason Tony doesn’t hesitate to shoot Peter a sour look over the rim of his mug. They’re long past the point of offending each other. The sass-soaked, sarcastic space between them is a lawless land. 

“I liked you better in your hero worship phase, right there in the beginning,” he says. “Back when you were all young and cute and didn’t threaten me.”

The kid doesn’t miss a beat. “You love me.” 

“Unfortunately for all involved parties, I do. Biggest mistake I’ve ever made.”

“Woe is you,” Peter says, but he’s grinning and Tony’s fighting a smile and god, he loves this kid.

Peter drops into a bar stool as Tony goes to grab the cereal from the pantry. They’ve already been awake for a while, having both rolled out of bed early this morning, and if Tony’s starting to get hungry then the kid’s gotta be starving. He pours them both a bowl and pours the milk the way Peter likes it, all over and soggy and frankly disgusting but Tony’ll allow it because it’s Peter, before sliding it across the island. “Sustenance,” he says.

“Breakfast of champions right here. Pure sugar and Red No. 5.”

“Ready to take on the world,” Tony agrees. “What are you doing up so early anyway?” He carries his bowl over to the barstool beside Peter, taking another sip of his shit coffee once he’s settled. “Late night last night. I figured you’d sleep in.”

The kid shrugs. “Dunno,” he says with his mouth full, then swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. Had a little bit of a headache, actually.” 

Tony frowns. “You feeling okay now?”

“Think so.”

Tony reaches out a hand to press against his forehead anyway, just checking the facts, and although Peter does feel a little warmer than usual it’s not anything high enough to be concerning. “We’ll take it easy today,” he says, pulling away. “Let you get a little more caught up on rest and give you a chance to wind down after this week. Got any movies in mind?”

As always, he does. Tony listens to him ramble as they eat, sitting side by side with the cold morning light filtering through the kitchen windows, and even though a touch of concern still hovers in his gut the kid really does seem to be fine. He’ll let it go for now, handle it if it comes up again later. 

No reason to worry, at least not yet.

***

_8:42 AM_

They’ve just started the first Lord of the Rings movie when Peter pauses it to go to the bathroom. “Told you not to drink that much orange juice,” Tony calls after him, sprawled across the couch with a blanket thrown over his lap and a pillow shoved behind his back. 

Peter grumbles back at him as he heads down the hall. Tony snorts in turn at his disgruntlement, mindlessly scrolling through his phone as he waits for the kid to come back.

There’s a crash and a thud from the bathroom a few minutes later.

There’s no immediate reason for that to be inherently concerning. Considering Peter’s innate love of tomfoolery paired with his complete lack of coordination when he’s not thwipping between buildings and flinging himself through the air, however ironic it is, shit like this is practically commonplace. 

Doesn’t mean that the sound of the kid potentially taking a header onto the tile floor is a comforting one, though. 

“Kid?” He sits up, waiting warily for the answering shout of _I’m okay!_ that usually comes after Peter has a klutz moment, but the only answer is silence. 

That’s when something starts to freeze up in Tony’s gut. 

“FRI, check on him.” He’s already throwing the blanket aside, already knowing that something’s wrong.

“Mr Parker has just collapsed, Boss. Crash and Burn protocol initiated.” 

And _fuck._

No reason to worry his ass. God, why would he ever believe this kid when it comes to shit like this? Why would he ever think Peter wouldn’t bullshit his way around feeling like crap to keep him from worrying? 

Fuck, this kid and his self-sacrificing tendencies. Tony’s pride and joy and the source of his next heart attack all wrapped up into one idiotic package. 

Tony’s already hurrying down the hallway, reaching for the doorknob and knowing it’ll be automatically unlocked from the protocol. He finds Peter sitting on the ground, slumped against the wall, still conscious but his skin grey and hands shaking and sopping wet, the sink still running like the kid just went down halfway through washing his hands. Like he had just fallen like a puppet with its strings cut without a breath of warning. The stunned, startled expression on Peter’s face reflects that. 

“Huh,” he breathes. “Iron deficiencies, am I right? Whack.”

Shit, this kid. He’s gonna kill him. 

“Whack,” Tony agrees, sounding calmer as he feels as he turns off the tap and grabs a towel. “Anemia’s a bitch. Coincidently, so is a fever.”

Peter huffs a faint, forced laugh like he knows he’s been found out, but it comes out more shaky than the kid was probably planning on. His unconcerned, cheerful mask, the _oh no Mr Stark I feel fine it’s not that much blood look it’s probably not even gonna leave a stain_ one, is starting to fall and Tony doesn’t know if the kid’s gonna be able to catch it before it’s gone. 

He really must be feeling like hell. God, Tony should have noticed sooner. 

Carefully, he crouches down in front of him, reaching to dry off the kid’s hands. Peter jumps at the contact like he didn’t know he was there. “What happened?” Tony asks, softer now. “You were out of my sight for three minutes. Gotta hand it to you, bud— you don’t waste time.”

Peter shakes his head, blinking as if he can’t quite get his eyes to focus. “Attempted to stand for a second too long,” he mutters. “Silly me.”

“Silly you,” Tony echoes. He watches him blink again, his pupils wildly dilated, searching, not quite clicked in. “Dizzy, huh?”

The kid swallows hard. “A little.”

“Close your eyes. You’ve got a lot of input coming at you. Might help with the vertigo.”

Peter obliges, a shudder running through him as Tony sets aside the towel, leaving a hand on his wrist to make sure the kid knows he’s still there. “Sorry,” Peter says, hoarsely, like he’s not sure what else to do.

“Apology not accepted. You didn’t do anything wrong, dork.”

The breath of a laugh that escapes Peter then sounds like it hurts him. “Yeah, okay. Okay.”

Tony drops his heels and sits back on his ass, keeping a gentle hand wrapped around Peter’s wrist, simultaneously keeping track of the kid’s pulse and letting the kid keep track of him. “Hey, FRI? Fill us in on what’s happening, please.” 

“It appears Mr Parker’s temperature has abruptly spiked to 101.7 degrees fahrenheit,” FRIDAY says. “This paired with other symptoms, such as dizziness, headache, and chills, points to the rapid onset of an aggressive form of the scoliopathy esthesioversion virus.”

“Great, okay,” Tony says. “What is that, where did it come from and how do we treat it?”

“It’s caused by a microbe created by Doctor Roger Glover and was regularly produced in his lab before it’s recent destruction,” FRIDAY says, the apology in her voice. “There’s no confirmed cure listed in the records, but I can read a list of symptoms if you’d like for easier treatment decisions while the virus runs its course.”

Peter’s eyes blink open. “Glover?” he says.

“Glover,” Tony repeats, slowly. “That’s not—”

“—Doc Brown gone dark side?”

There’s a moment where Tony just stares at him, pausing to decipher whatever the hell the kid just tried to say and translate it into normal person dialect, but then what FRIDAY said registers and it hits him like a brick to the dick. 

Roger Glover. Last Friday’s baddie of the hour, once they finally tracked him down after a long stretch of trying. A nut job, honestly, but the unfortunate variety of nut job that meant the guy also happened to be incredibly smart. A shattered mind and a sharp brain rarely make a good combination. 

This guy was no exception to the rule. 

He was a mad scientist type of character, holed up in a lab full of all sorts of fun-time illegal substances and stupid dangerous experiments, and considering what he appeared to be planning, Tony had been glad they’d caught him when they had. Well, glad that Peter had caught him. He was the one to stumble across his work originally, and although it had taken a solid handful of months to actually track down his lair even after Peter called in backup, it was the kid who really got the guy behind bars. 

Unfortunately, that fact didn’t get by Dr. Mental. Fortunately, desperate, last minute threats made when you’re handcuffed and your lab is about to be blown to high heaven don’t carry a whole lot of weight by principle and Tony didn’t give any of it a second thought. 

He should have given it a second thought.

“That son of a bitch,” he says bluntly.

Peter blinks again, his head resting back against the wall behind him. “I thought we were done with that guy,” he murmurs. “All locked up and stuff. Busted.”

“Me too, kid. Guess we were wrong.”

“Us?” Peter breathes. “Never.”

Tony squeezes the kid’s wrist before pushing himself to standing, leaving Peter on the bathroom floor for the moment and heading for the closest screen. “FRIDAY, push through a direct communication link with Glover, straight from the jail cell,” he calls. “Got some questions for him.”

He gets one foot into the hall before Peter starts to seize.

Things go downhill quick after that. 

***

_10:09 AM_

It takes about an hour for Tony to be absolutely sure that Peter’s stable, set up in a medbay hospital room with a fluid drip and enough monitors to make a hacker’s Christmas. Another twenty minutes for him to connect with Dr. Glover and get all the answers he needs. Thirty seconds before he’s back on the phone.

Because, and oh hell to this one, the virus is a fucking superbug in every sense of the word. 

It was a last ditch attempt to reign chaos, a virus released to the whole of New York in the moments before his arrest. The way Glover explains it, it’s highly contagious, highly dangerous, and sketchy as hell considering it came from a glorified version of a home chemistry kit. 

The good news: it was engineered to have absolutely no effect on the general population. It travels from person to person easily and New York is already entirely infected from the week it’s been in circulation, but the virus isn’t meant to hurt civilians.

The bad news: the virus is meant to hurt superheroes. Particularly enhanced superheroes. Particularly Peter. 

It’s a genetically engineered microbe created to take down enhanced folk, targeting their changed DNA and wreaking the exact kind of havoc on their systems that would make them easy to pick out of the crowd without killing them outright. A 24-hour bug created with the intention of causing as much damage and chaos as physically possible in a day. Over the communication, Glover explains that it was meant to wipe out anyone that would be a threat to him, but Spider-Man was the main target. 

He says he meant to escape and be around to see it, to take advantage of the opportunity, but the suffering that’s going to overtake the kid will be payment enough for his troubles even if it happens while he’s in a jail cell. 

Tony is rarely surprised by how shitty people can be these days. This guy catches him off guard all the same. 

He calls in Rhodey and Bruce for damage control with the kid before settling down with his computer and his phone to contact all the enhanced people he can think of. From Steve to Wanda to fucking Johnny Storm, he makes his rounds, telling them to get out of the city if they aren’t showing symptoms yet and to find a safe place to stay and safe people to stay with for the next day if they are, because it looks like they have a rough ride before them. 

He sure knows Peter does. 

On the bright side, the cycle of the virus starts with the first symptoms, running its course for a full 24 hours before it’s over and done with. Peter’s only at the beginning stages now and it’s already absolute shit, there’s no getting around that, but in a day, this will all be behind them. They’ve just got to get to tomorrow morning. They’ve just got to keep his head above water until then, until he’s strong enough to go back to doing it himself. 

It’s just a day, Tony knows. They can handle anything for a day.

Doesn’t mean today’s not gonna be shitty as all hell, but they’re going to be fine. 

***

_11:59 AM_

Somewhere between the sensory overload, the raging fever, and the kid crying out in pain when Tony dares to try and make any of this even just a little bit better, he starts to question that. 

***

_12:14 PM_

_(Present.)_

Bruce caps the needle, glancing up at the monitors for a long moment and sighing when everything steadies. “Okay, he’s out,” he says. “The sedative’s pretty mild for his metabolism, but it should be enough to let him get some sleep. He should be set for a while.”

“Thank god,” Tony mutters. Rhodey heaves a sigh, withdrawing his hands and rocking back onto his heels, and Tony carefully untangles his fingers from the kid’s hair, leaving him to rest. The burning heat of Peter’s skin lingers on his palm. “That— fuck, that was bad. That was very, inherently not good. Shit.”

Rhodey carefully gets to his feet, braces whirring as he straightens up, a hand planted on Tony’s shoulder for stability. “No dip,” he deadpans. “What the hell was that, anyway? Sensory overload’s new.”

“Either the virus is evolving, or Peter’s just hitting a new stage of it.” Bruce is already up and across the hospital room they’ve claimed in the medbay, disposing of the empty syringe and alcohol wipe and moving over to the sink to rewet a cold washcloth. “Either way we’ll just keep treating what we can. But on the bright side, we’ve got another symptom to add to the list. The sensory overload gives us a better idea of what we’re facing here. The more we know, the better we can handle it.”

“Oh, lucky us.”

Tony sighs, watching the too-small kid sleep in the too-big hospital bed. “I’m going to kill that guy,” he says simply.

“Get in line,” says Rhodey.

Moving back to the hospital bed with the freshly soaked rag in hand, Bruce shakes his head, his jaw set. “It’s a gross misuse of genuine medical skills, honestly. It would have taken Glover a lot of effort and time to develop a virus like this, effort and time that could have gone towards doing something _good,_ and instead he used all those resources to create a virus engineered with the sole purpose of making a kid hurt.” Gently, he pushes back Peter’s bangs and settles the washcloth over his forehead. Peter tenses at the new sensation, sensitive even in unconsciousness, and Bruce leaves a soft hand resting over his hair until he settles. “It’s— god, it’s despicable. There’s not even another word for it.”

“Evil doctors, man,” Rhodey says. “They’re a horror movie favorite for a reason.”

“The whole Dr. Giggles shtick is incredibly unoriginal of this bastard, really,” Tony agrees. “You’d think he’d at least try at creativity.”

Rhodey shakes his head, standing at the foot of the bed with a light hand resting on Peter’s ankle. “Villains these days ain’t shit.”

“He didn’t even have an origin story.”

“Pathetic.”

“Straight up pitiful,” Tony agrees, and leave it to Rhodey to make him have to fight a fucking smile in the midst of something like this. God, he doesn’t know whether to thank him or curse him out. 

But then Bruce starts to frown, watching the monitors, and the hesitant humor drops out of the atmosphere as quickly as it appeared. “The sedative is messing with his O2 levels,” he mutters. “Rhodey, grab me that oxygen tank, would you?”

Rhodey moves immediately, fetching the just-in-case tank from across the room while Bruce digs out an oxygen mask from one of the cabinets. “We’ll hit him with a mask now while he’s out, switch over to a cannula once he wakes up,” he says. “He needs the higher concentration, but his sensitivity will make it hard to use a mask when he’s conscious. Now’s the time to take advantage.”

Tony watches them work, still keeping one eye on the monitors and the other on the kid beside him. “You need me to do anything?”

“Just keep sitting there.” Bruce drops the tank beside the bed once Rhodey hands it off, crouches down and starts working on setting up the tubing. “The sedative’s keeping him asleep but it isn’t strong enough to put him out entirely, so we’re going to need you to keep him calm while we’re messing with his face.” 

Considering the way Peter’s flinching if you dare to breathe on him too hard, Tony winces at the concept of a hard plastic mask pressing into his skin, an uncomfortable and claustrophobic device even under ordinary circumstances. However, they can’t get around the fact that the kid does need it, especially looking at his stats right about now. The sedative will save him most of the distress. Tony will take care of the overflow.

There’s not much else he can do for Peter at the moment, not much he can try to make this whole situation better, but he can do this.

Even if it’s a fucking awful excuse for fixing things, it’s all he’s got right about now. 

He gets a better hold on Peter’s hand when Bruce goes in with the mask, oxygen connected but not yet released. Rhodey slides a gentle hand beneath Peter’s curls, lifting up his head just enough to let Bruce slip the straps of the mask into place and though Peter lets out a soft moan at the movement, he doesn’t stir past that.

Then Bruce settles the mask over his mouth and nose and Peter turns his head at the intrusion, a low whine building in his throat, but Bruce holds the plastic tight and Tony holds the kid’s hand tighter, keeping him still, keeping him calm through the worst of it. Rhodey reaches to turn on the oxygen. Peter’s breath catches at the new feeling and sound of the air blowing, turning his face against the pillow in a weak attempt to evade it. Another broken gasp drags out of him.

God, it’s like every time this kid fucking _moves_ he’s in pain. Something in Tony’s gut clenches, watching him, listening to him, freezing him in the fear that doing anything more than they already have will just make him hurt worse than he already is.

“Tony,” Bruce says shortly. Peter whimpers, the sound muffled by the mask.

And shit, because he’s got to pull it together. 

It is not his turn to break.

“Shh, bud,” Tony murmurs, replacing Rhodey’s hand in Peter’s hair with his own carefully, so carefully. The kid’s breath hitches at the new touch and Tony has to force his voice to come steady. “You’re okay, it’s okay, just ride it out. It’s all good, sweetheart, I promise.”

Peter’s eyes crack open for a fraction of an instant before sliding back shut, and despite the discomfort etched in the lines of his face, he settles. 

The air leaves Tony’s lungs all in a rush, panicked and relieved and so, so concerned.

His flesh is like a furnace against Tony’s hands. 

“Do we have a recent read on his temp?” he asks. His words come out shakier than he means them to, unsteady and rattled. He clears his throat roughly before continuing. “Do we need anything other than the fever reducer to bring it down?”

“It’s 104 at the moment,” Bruce says. He picks up the designated Peter clipboard, starts scribbling down notes. It’s miniscule, but Tony can see the pen shaking in his hand, and Tony knows he’s not the only one unsettled. “High, but not that high for him and nothing the fever reducer can’t handle.”

“And what’s your temp at, doc?” Rhodey says. He’s already across the room, pacing with his hands in his pockets, but he pauses to shoot a pointed glance Bruce’s way. “We haven’t checked that in a while.”

Bruce doesn’t look up from the paper. “No need. I feel fine.”

Rhodey’s expression turns unamused. “FRIDAY, temp check on Dr Banner.”

“FRIDAY, cancel temp check.”

“Override code 2741. Temp check on Dr Banner.”

Bruce opens his mouth to protest again, but an infrared laser is already scanning over his forehead. “100.6 degrees Fahrenheit,” FRIDAY reports a moment later, and then Bruce just looks defeated. 

“Up a few tenths of a degree from last time,” Rhodey says, gentler now. “Low fever, but still a fever.”

“Not a fever,” Bruce sighs, but he’s looking more resigned by the moment. 

“Tylenol or Advil?”

“... Advil, please.”

They figured out pretty quickly that the superbug doesn’t discriminate— it hits any and every enhanced system it finds without hesitation. Bruce and his jolly green alter ego weren’t spared. Luckily, according to Bruce, the far more enhanced Hulk’s getting the brunt of the virus but the overflow is hitting him just enough to give him a free trial of what Peter’s dealing with right now, more cold-like than anything else but still potent enough to notice, so they’re keeping an eye on him all the same.

And, on the bright side, he gets to be their control variable with Peter. 

Peter’s symptoms have been unpredictable so far. It started with just the fever and the beginnings of what looked like a mild cold, but it quickly devolved into severe aches, chills, the occasional seizure and now, evidently, sensory overload from his senses abruptly going from dialed to eleven to cranked to seventeen. They’ve already drawn blood and they’re already trying to figure out if this whole virus is something they can develop a cure to, but in the meantime, they’re just handling symptoms as they crop up and recording them as they do, like FRIDAY recommended in the beginning. 

By keeping track of Bruce’s symptoms as Peter’s appear, it gives them a wider pool to work off of when it comes to treatment and prevention, both for now and for in the hopefully improbable situation of this absolute fucker of a virus deciding to pop up again at any point in the future. It lets them map out where this virus has been and where it’s going, which gives them a better idea of how to deal with it. 

It’s not perfect, but they’ll take what they can get. 

While Rhodey goes fishing through the medical cabinets, glad to do something other than walk around and stare at the kid in the hospital bed, Tony finds his attention redirected to Peter, as his attention is so apt to do. He’s still perched on the edge of the mattress, sitting beside Peter’s hip, and although he knows he really should move soon and leave the kid be while he’s stable, he can’t bring himself to get up. 

At this point, he knows the kid’s out. Peter was already exhausted and sensory overload always knocks him out of commission for a while anyway, so now that no one’s poking or prodding at him, he’s likely not to wake up again at least until the sedative wears off. It won’t make a bit of difference whether Tony stays or goes considering Peter probably won’t have a clue either way. 

Still, he’s not about to leave the kid alone, without someone to hold his hand and brush back his hair and remind him that there’s something else out there other than the hell this virus has plunged him into. 

Not yet. 

Gently, he squeezes the hand he’s still got within his own, too hot skin burning against his palm.

Peter does look more or less at peace like this, Tony supposes, especially now that he’s settled again, but he still looks a breeze away from death. He’s so, so pale save for the fever spots high on his cheeks, hair messy and dark against the white pillowcase. An IV drip threads fluids into his left arm, and the right is likely where they’ll place the IV catheter as this thing progresses, letting them get instant access to keep him drugged and comfortable. The mask fogs up just slightly with his every exhale. 

God, the kid’s still on fire.

He was right before. 

This all really does just suck ass. 

***

_1:50 PM_

Bruce’s temperature continues to climb just a little more in the next half an hour, quickly followed by Peter’s spiking another full degree before it’s forced back down by the fever reducer. This paired with the fact that Bruce started squinting at the light a little under thirty minutes before Peter woke up in full blown sensory overload leads to the deduction that Bruce is a step ahead of Peter with the progression of the virus. 

It’s an odd illness as to how it follows it’s symptoms. It has an extremely set path within how it moves, how it progresses, and it’s unlike any other viruses than any of them have seen before as a result. However, for once, this particular funky ass property of the virus is a good thing. 

Because, even though whatever Bruce gets is far milder than what Peter gets, he becomes their warning system. He’s their way of seeing what’s going to be thrown their way next. By working off of what’s happening to Bruce they can prepare for what’s going to happen to Peter, and that’s fucking awesome with how unpredictable this virus is with it’s devolopment.

They keep a closer eye on him after that. 

***

_2:49 PM_

They end up telling May that Peter has the flu, at least until she gets home. The conference is a big one for her. They don’t want to pull her out early just so she can worry and fuss when there’s nothing she can do for Peter that they’re not already doing. It’s the logical thing to do, the kind thing, and the one that Peter approved before he went down, so it’s really their only choice for now.

It still feels like lying because, well, it is, but Tony knows Peter will never forgive him if he drags May out of this opportunity just so she can stress about something she has no control over. 

God, the kid’s knocked out unconscious and he’s still governing Tony’s decisions. Tony’s in deep.

(He still hasn’t moved from the hospital bed.)

(His back hurts like hell.)

(He finds that he doesn’t care.)

***

_4:37 PM_

Bruce downs a capful of Pepto Bismol and Tony swears.

***

_5:18 PM_

Peter wakes up heaving, his previously settled stomach roaring back to life like it had never been quiet in the first place and _fuck,_ it hurts like hell. Bile burns his throat and fever burns his skin and the hands pushing him up to sitting are too rough, too fast, too _hot_ but he’s too busy puking into the plastic bin held under his chin to shake them off, his head pounding and his body aching and everything _burning_ and god, he’s still exhausted. 

There isn’t much in his stomach but he gags for a solid few minutes anyway, every retch sending a new wave of fire flooding through his body until he’s dry heaving and choking on air. He can hear Mr Stark talking to him, his voice barely a murmur, and he recognizes the hand resting on the back of his neck as Rhodey’s, which is a comfort even if he does feel like shit on toast right about now. Small wins, he supposes. 

The fit gives one last cramp, painful and fierce, before finally, finally quieting. Peter spits into the bin.

The smell hitting his oversensitive nose threatens to kick up round two, but as soon as he lifts up his head Rhodey pulls away and the tray goes with him, and the creak of his leg braces suggests he’s crossing the room to rinse it out and get rid of the stench. Peter sighs in relief. God, he doesn’t deserve Rhodey and his uncanny way of knowing what’s needed without having to be told. Bless that man. Underappreciated, that’s what he is, somebody give him a medal for being cool because shit, Rhodey’s so fucking cool. Fuck. 

Peter feels so sick. 

Gently, the hands shift him so that he’s propped up against the headrest and multiple pillows, keeping him steady but letting him lean back against something more solid. The sheets feel like they’re leaving rug burns on his skin every time he moves. His eyes are closed and the light in the room is still blinding.

God, Peter’s not a fan of all of this. 0/10 stars, do not recommend.

Now that his stomach is tentatively settled again, the hand holding his just squeezes a little tighter. It’s too warm and too rough but it’s familiar, the pressure light but steady, and he hums softly in acknowledgement. 

“Kid?” Mr Stark says, his voice held low and gentle. “You back with us yet, bud?” 

Peter knows that the sensory overload hasn’t eased up yet considering how the world is still too bright and too loud and his skin feels rubbed raw just from the shifting of the bedsheets, but he also knows that there must be some good drugs still in his system because none of these things bother him as much as they probably should. He cracks his eyes open tentatively when the lights dim again.

Mr Stark is crouched beside the hospital bed, his features creased with worry and exhaustion even as he tries on a grin. “There you are,” he whispers. “How you feeling? 

Peter clenches his teeth against the growing queasiness in his gut, the second wave building strength even if he knows there’s nothing else for him to puke up. “Been better,” he croaks. 

“Adding nausea to the list,” Bruce notes, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed with a clipboard in his lap and a pen in his hand. His free hand rests on Peter’s ankle, light but comforting. “We’ll add an anti-nausea medication to your IV, okay? I know the sedative didn’t last long but the painkiller and fever reducer seem to be holding their own, so hopefully the antiemetic will follow their lead.” He glances up from the paper to shoot Peter a fast smile. He looks tired too, and pale, even as he pats Peter’s ankle reassuringly. “We’ll just keep catching what this throws at us.”

Rhodey sets the now clean bin aside to dry, crossing the room again to look over Bruce’s shoulder and read over the updated list. He lets out a low whistle. “Shit,” he says, vaguely appreciative. “This is getting impressive.”

“He’s a marvel,” Mr Stark deadpans. 

“Seriously, though, look at this,” Rhodey says, snagging the chart from Bruce’s lap and turning it so that Peter can see. Judging from the fading ink marking the more recent developments, Bruce has nearly killed a pen on it already. Peter doesn’t know whether to be horrified or proud. “You’re outdoing yourself, Spidey.”

“Yay me,” Peter breathes.

“I’ll grab that antiemetic,” Bruce says. He rises quickly from the mattress with the clipboard tucked under his arm and the pen tucked behind his ear, heading for Peter’s IV catheter with his glasses already slipping down his nose.

He makes it about halfway there before he falters.

The too-fast movement catches up with him and Peter sees the exact moment it happens, can see precisely when Bruce tips over the edge of feeling okay to feeling like utter shit. He stumbles to a stop halfway through a step, the color draining from his face, and Rhodey’s at his side with an arm around his waist and a hand to his shoulder before his knees have a chance to buckle. 

Mr Stark sits up, alarmed. “Woah, hey,” he says. “Hey—”

Bruce’s knees buckle anyway. Rhodey can’t hold him up so they both go down, hitting the cool tile of the hospital room floor with a thud. Bruce’s face is absolutely grey, and Rhodey hand moves from his shoulder to his forehead, an arm still secured around his back to keep him upright. He swears under his breath at what he finds. 

“FRIDAY?” Rhodey says sharply.

“Dr Banner’s temperature has abruptly spiked from 100.5 to 102.1,” FRIDAY reports. “It appears the virus has reached a new stage of progression.”

Mr Stark’s gaze flashes over to meet Rhodey’s.

And in that moment, Peter knows he’s fucked.

***

_5:43 PM_

Peter’s on fire. 

***

_5:45 PM_

And then Peter falls.

***

_6:08 PM_

“Easy, sweetheart, easy.”

The kid whimpers, jerking away from Tony’s hands. He seems constantly torn between getting away and getting closer, every touch causing him agony even as he’s desperate for comfort. He presses tighter to Tony even now, curled up half in his lap with his head resting on Tony’s chest, a trembling furnace through his t-shirt, still fighting the hold Tony’s got on his wrists because he’s overwhelmed and he’s sick and he doesn’t fucking know that they’re not trying to hurt him. 

Tony hates this. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this. “Shh, kid. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He’s being as gentle as he possibly can be, terrified of making this kid hurt any worse than he’s already hurting, but Peter’s not lucid. Tony knows that he doesn’t want anything touching him right now with his senses being as wrecked as they are, let alone anything threaded under his skin. He gets it. God, he gets it, and he hates making the kid withstand anything that’s causing him pain, but Peter needs fluids and drugs more than ever right now and Tony’s not about to let him yank out the IV lines like he’s been trying to. 

And fuck, it shouldn’t be this easy to stop him.

The kid’s so weak. It would normally take a considerable amount of effort, brute strength, and elbow grease to even try and keep him still when he’s fighting like this, but right now, Tony can do it even without the armor to back him up. It’s still hard to keep him down, but not nearly as hard as it should be.

Tony cannot begin to express how much that scares him. 

Peter whines, collapsing back against Tony and shaking so hard he can feel the mattress trembling beneath them. Tony barely dares to breathe where he’s propped up against the headrest of the hospital bed, legs stretched out on either side of the kid, one palm still pressed over his IV site, other around his wrists, Peter’s hand fisted in Tony’s t-shirt. Tony’s sweating from the sheer heat radiating off of Peter’s skin. 

“There you go,” Tony murmurs. He doesn’t let go of the kid just yet, not risking it, but his hold loosens, gentle as Peter pants his distress and discomfort. “Easy, buddy, you’re okay.”

Peter twitches, exhausted and spent and so goddamn sick but not yet defeated.

He’s still fighting. God, Tony’s glad to see it. 

“Hey, Bruce?” Tony whispers, not daring to raise his voice above a breath. “Not to add more stress to this already established shitstorm of a situation, but any bright ideas springing into that big brain of yours yet?”

Bruce doesn’t even look at him. His gaze never strays from the monitors blinking around Peter’s bed, as focused as his own fevered mind will let him get, intent until the end. “FRIDAY, run the dosage calculations again,” he says. He sits on his own hospital bed a few feet away, half swaying even now, but his own freshly placed IV has brought some of the color back to his face and his fever back down to a safer range. “Just— just see if we can give him any more.”

There’s barely even a pause. “Factoring in Peter’s metabolism and the amount of medication already in his system, administering any more sedative, painkiller, or fever reducer would be risking overdose.”

Bruce drags a hand across his face, blowing out a short, fast breath that entirely embodies the sentiment, emotion, and all the desolate passion of the word _fuck._

“Any other ideas?” Tony says. “Not to rush you, but the kid’s kind of turning into a pressure cooker in my lap. Not super comfortable for either of us.”

Bruce doesn’t move the hand away from his face. “The ice should help,” he says, muffled by his palm. “It should help a lot. Other than that, we’re freeballing until I can come up with something better.” 

He sounds so fucking tired that Tony instantly feels bad for ribbing him. It was more an effort to lighten the atmosphere than anything else, using humor as a shield and all that jazz, but Bruce is already doing his best. Hell, he’s pushing to do so much better than his best, and while juggling his own fever and illness at that. It was a cheap play at a laugh. He shouldn’t have said it.

God, the tension’s starting to get to him. 

“Freeballing’s better than nothing,” Tony murmurs, gentler now, apologetic. “Besides, I’d rather have you freeballing with my kid over anybody else without a medical degree. King among peasants, you.”

Bruce huffs a mirthless breath of a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… yeah. Thanks, Tony.”

“I wasn’t sure how many we were going to need, so I just grabbed them all.” Rhodey shoves the hospital room door open with his shoulder, arms weighed down with ice packs. He’s got an easy dozen stacked there, all of varying sizes and colors, obviously whatever he could find. “Hopefully nobody around here needs to freeze anything anytime soon.”

“Not our problem.” Bruce shoves himself to standing, using his IV pole for support and opening up his hospital bed. “Peter comes before everything else.”

Rhodey lets the packs tumble into place on the mattress as soon as Bruce is out of the way, spreading them out with a swipe of his arm for easier grabbing, moving fast even without detailed instruction. “We aiming for main arteries?” he asks, already reaching for a handful. 

“We’re aiming for as much of him as we can, but especially main arteries,” Bruce agrees. “It’s a heat stroke treatment, technically, but this is close enough.” 

“What can I do?” Tony asks, watching them work. Peter’s limp against him, quieter now. Tony feels like he’s got a fucking space heater in his lap. His t-shirt’s soaked through. 

“Lay him flat, but stay close,” Bruce says. He scoops up a pair of ice packs with the hand not clenched around the IV pole, watching as Tony slides out from behind the kid, Rhodey immediately reaching to hold Peter up until they can both lower him down. Peter whimpers at the loss of contact and the change in position, but doesn’t react past that. He’s going real compliant real fast now. Tony doesn’t want to think about what that might mean. “And grab some ice.”

They work fast, placing the packs along Peter’s neck, his groin, under his arms. He’s already out of his t-shirt considering the extra layer wasn’t doing him any favors, but they strip him out of his sweatpants, too, leaving him in his boxers as they cover any remaining skin with the ice packs they have left. 

Peter whines at the new sensation, a low sob building in his throat when he tries to push the packs off and they don’t let him, but his comfort is starting to rank lower on their list of priorities now. God, Tony hates that, but they have to compartmentalize. 

Tony doesn’t want him to be in pain, but he’d rather see him hurt than see him burn.

He still keeps a hand over the kid’s. 

They cover him the best they can, trying to bring his temp down as quickly as possible and get him out of the danger zone. Bruce seems to be gaining strength as time passes, which is a good sign for Peter. The kid’s temperature ticks down a few hundredths of a degree and it feels like a victory. For a moment, Tony lets himself hope. 

Then Peter starts seizing again and fucking shit, it’s not over. 

***

_7:49 PM_

Just about 12 hours left, Tony thinks. They’re halfway there.

Peter melts the cold packs like ice over a flame. 

***

_9:32 PM_

They figure out a system with the ice packs after a while, keeping half in the freezer while the other half is kept with the kid. The packs are never given a chance to get fully frozen again considering how quickly they have to swap them out, but marginally cold is better than nothing, and they work with what they have.

They’ve been doing a lot of that lately, rolling with what they’re given and making the best of it. Probably not the most accurate way of doing things but it’s a strategy all the same. 

Hence their current method of keeping the kid calm. 

Basically, they keep Tony near him.

He’s the only one able to touch Peter now without the kid freaking out. Bruce says it’s because he’s more familiar with Tony’s touch than he is with either of theirs— with the kid being in such a panicked, disoriented state at the moment, Tony’s is the only contact he perceives as safe rather than a threat. 

Tony hasn’t moved from the hospital bed in hours.

“You want to try and switch out?” Rhodey asks at some point, standing at the side of the hospital bed with his arms crossed over his chest. “The kid’s nearly asleep. He probably won’t even notice if it’s me for a while instead of you. You’ve earned the break.”

“I’m fine,” Tony says, the response almost automatic in it’s speed. Peter’s curled up so tight against him, his face buried in Tony’s shoulder, and he really does seem to be the closest to genuine rest as he’s been since his fever spiked. Tony can’t risk disturbing him.

Rhodey fixes him with an unimpressed look. “You cannot look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have to piss by now.”

Fuck, he does, but he’s been trying real hard not to think about it and Rhodey’s not helping. “Fuck off,” he mutters. 

“He’s right, Tony,” Bruce says. He’s sitting on his own hospital bed again, a new bag hooked up to his IV line and his fever continuously dropping even if he’s still too damn pale. Luckily, he’s got fever reducers and painkillers to keep him on his feet, unlike Peter. “Rhodey can take the kid for fifteen minutes. Walk around, freshen up, hell, just go down the hall and get some coffee— just get out of this room for a while. It’ll do you good.”

God, coffee. A smile comes unbidden at that, as fragile and shaky as it is. “Peter would kill me if I touched caffeine.”

“Great,” Rhodey says. “You’ll give him something to look forward to.”

Tony snorts. “Nothing like the promise of murder to bring him back to health.”

Bruce smiles as well even as his expression stays serious. He still looks so fucking tired, propped up against a mountain of pillows at the headboard of the hospital bed, but he doesn’t falter, steady until the end. “Take a break, Tony,” he says, gentle as all hell. “Go get some air.”

And, yeah, no. 

Because here’s the thing— he knows that they’re just trying to help him. He gets it. If the situation was reversed and one of them was in his place, he’d be pushing just as much if not more. But the situation isn’t reversed, and he’s the one in the hospital bed with a sick kid asleep in his lap, and he’s the one who is not about to fucking move when he’s the only thing allowing the kid to feel less than fucking endangered. 

“I’m not leaving him,” he says. 

“Tones,” Rhodey says, firmer now. “He won’t know the difference.”

“Rhodey,” Tony returns, “he _will._ Spidey-sense, remember? The kid’s out of whack but his enhancements are still online, however fucked up they are at the moment, not to mention his sensitivities. It has to be me.”

Rhodey turns to Bruce, already expecting an argument, but Bruce is looking apologetically in agreement. “He’s . . . not wrong,” he says. “In fact, Peter’s probably even more sensitive to changes in his environment than normal at this point.”

“See? Not moving.”

“However,” Bruce says, and that’s when Tony knows he’s fucked, “that doesn’t mean that you can’t still walk away for a few minutes, Tony. Peter might be a tad more stressed while you’re gone, sure, but in the scheme of things—”

“In the scheme of things, I’m fine,” Tony interrupts. “Don’t even continue with that. I’m not going to purposefully wig out the kid just so I can take a fucking coffee break, alright?”

Rhodey’s mouth flattens out into a thin line. “Tones—”

“No.”

There must be something in his face that tells them to leave it be, because they back off. Tony’s glad for it. A little discomfort is more than worth the kid’s perception of safety. 

He’s just fine right here.

***

_11:28 PM_

The kid’s about as close to sleep as it gets while your body’s trying to burn itself to a crisp when a sudden tremble runs through him, shuddering against Tony’s chest. His teeth chatter on his next exhale. He doesn’t wake, not yet, but he presses closer to Tony anyway, curled in on himself and so much smaller than he ever should be. 

It’s then, with Peter as close to him as he is, that Tony recognizes the new heat.

His focus snaps over to the nearest monitor, because the universe cannot possibly be cruel enough to be doing what he thinks it’s about to fucking do.

He watches Peter’s temperature climb a hundredth of a degree. Two. Three. 

And well, fuck, because evidently, the universe just fucking hates them.

“Bruce,” he murmurs, not even wanting to say it out loud, not even wanting to acknowledge it lest this fucking bug hears it and takes it as a challenge. He wouldn’t put it past Glover. Leave it to that motherfucker to make this virus sentient just for shits and giggles. “Monitor.”

“I see it,” Bruce says warily.

Rhodey looks up, leaning against the far wall with his phone in his hand, thumb mid-scroll. “Think it’ll go away if we ignore it for long enough?” he mutters.

The monitor chooses that moment to start urgently blinking, the silent version of an alarm. FRIDAY made the change for them on all the machines a little while back, after Peter’s heart rate spiked during a nightmare and the resulting, blaring alarm didn’t exactly help with calming him down. Bruce watches the screen, sighs, and gets up, leaning heavily on his IV pole.

“Ice is out,” he says. “Cool bath is our next up.”

They’ve already talked about this, already decided their course of action in case something like this would happen, but shit, Tony was really hoping that it would stay as just a concept. He trusts Bruce, and he knows that this is the best thing for Peter if Bruce says it is, but dunking the kid was supposed to be a last resort. 

He guesses they’re there, now. 

That’s not a comforting thought. 

Peter sighs, another chill running through him. He’s still so pale save the fever spots, skin grey against the black of Tony’s t-shirt, exhausted and burning and so damn sick. Tony runs a careful hand through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. Peter’s breath hitches at the contact but he doesn’t pull away.

“Bud?” Tony murmurs. He continues playing with his hair, feather light, careful not to touch him any more than necessary but enough to bring him around. “I know waking up sucks right now, but we’ve got to get you moving.”

Peter whimpers and Tony’s heart clenches so hard it’s like someone got a fist around it. He forces his hand to stay steady.

“C’mon, kid.”

Rhodey comes to stand beside the hospital bed, hands in his pockets. Bruce is already in the bathroom, getting everything ready while FRIDAY starts the bath. “He registering anything?” he asks, voice held low. He’ll need to move soon, Tony knows. None of them are strong enough to comfortably carry the kid for longer than a few seconds, so Rhodey will be suiting up in an armor and scooping up Peter as soon as Bruce finishes prepping. Tony will be following behind, playing backup. 

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Tony says. “Touch, sure, considering there’s not much he’s not feeling right now, but words not so much.”

“So nothing new?”

“No, nothing new.”

“The virus is just fucking with him,” Rhodey murmurs. A hand lands on Tony’s shoulder, heavy and warm and with just enough pressure in the squeeze to be reassuring. “He’s gonna be fine. You know that. He’s whammied right now, yeah, but he’s gonna be fine.”

Tony swallows hard, because he _does_ know. This virus should not be deadly within itself. They’ve got some the best tools in the trade at their disposal and some of the best minds to boot. Peter’s fever is dangerous, yes, but with his enhanced DNA he’s able to withstand higher temperatures than the usual, and he’s got everything going for him to hit recovery. He’s in the best possible hands.

But fuck, if that isn’t hard as hell to remember when you’re watching your kid burn. 

“Tony?”

He takes a breath. “Yeah,” he says, his voice coming rougher than he was planning, and he clears his throat, pushing his way through before it can catch up to him. “Yeah, I got you. Hey, off topic, but what time is it?”

There’s a pause as Rhodey checks his phone. “Just shy of midnight.”

Tony nods. “Eight hours left, then.”

Rhodey squeezes his shoulder again. “Eight hours,” he repeats. “We can do that.”

***

_12:09 AM_

The first thing Peter grows aware of is the rocking.

It’s a small movement but it’s jolting, painful, every sway meeting him with a shock that seems to race through his limbs, into his pounding head, dull and aching. He whimpers, turning his face away from the movement and meeting cool metal. It’s too cold, burning against his cheek just like the bands of ice resting beneath his knees and shoulders, but it’s steadying, unyielding. He doesn’t move away.

There’s voices, and light, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, trying to shut it all out before it can reach him. The rocking slows before coming to a stop. His skin prickles in the cool air, the metal leaching away any heat he might find before he can catch it, and he shudders, freezing and burning and hurting like hell. 

The rocking starts up again, shorter this time, and then he’s moving. 

And then he touches water. 

And then he can’t breathe.

It hits him like a wall, the shock of it, the feeling of utter danger that accompanies the fact that he’s in frigid water with hands he doesn’t recognize touching him and _holding him down_ and it’s up to his chest now and it’s still going, it’s still rising and he’s going to drown, he’s going to fucking _drown_ and there’s not a damn thing he can do about it and oh god oh fuck he’s alone, he’s alone—

He shouts, breathless, panicked, spidey-sense blaring so fiercely it’s painful, coming at him from all directions like it can’t decide where the worst of the threat is coming from, like it just knows that something’s _wrong_ and that’s enough. New hands grab for him, searing spots of heat against his bare shoulders, his chest, too hot and too rough with bruising force against the ice of the sloshing water and he cries out at the touch but they don’t pull away, they don’t even move, and the voices around him have risen to a cacophony so loud he can feel his eardrums pounding with the noise, pounding in time with his roaring pulse and throbbing head and it’s too fucking much. 

He sobs, pushing away and scrabbling at the sides desperately and finding no purchase, his face slipping way too close to the water but they won’t let him out, they won’t let him _up,_ and oh god everything _hurts._

The water sloshes, splashing dangerously. It laps roughly at his skin and he whimpers, terrified, fighting the hold the hands have on him and they don’t let him up, they don’t let him go. 

Oh god, oh _god,_ this is it, this is—

He’s moved forward and then someone’s there.

It’s a fast maneuver, the hands shifting him up and away to make room for just a second followed by a rough splash and a resulting upset of the water. His spidey-sense screams in protest but there’s nothing he can do that he’s not already doing, nothing that can stop these people from keeping him down and nothing that can stop the motion he can feel behind him, someone stepping in, someone getting closer to him, someone _there._

Peter sobs like that could make this all stop and then someone’s slid in behind him. 

Careful arms wrap around his chest, legs stretch out to cage him in, the too rough contact warm in the freezing water but oh _shit_ because he’s _not_ alone and he thinks he liked the old way better, he doesn’t want someone in here with him he doesn’t want someone holding him under he doesn’t want someone touching him he doesn’t want _this—_

His breath hitches, jerking, trying to break the hold around him, trying to fight off the offender he can’t see but he can feel and _sense_ and oh god they’re going to drown him, they’re going to hurt him, he’s going to die and he can’t do anything to stop it and he’s so damn helpless. He sobs again, desperate, terrified, _trapped_ and that’s when he hears the voice.

It’s barely a murmur, a quiet hum coming from the body he’s pressed close to, the breath warm against his ear even as he cranes to get away and though nothing eases there’s something familiar about it. It’s not inherently comforting, but it doesn’t feel as hostile as everything else does right now. It doesn’t feel as threatening. 

Then someone starts playing with his hair and holy _shit,_ it’s them. 

It’s them.

He’s home.

The fight melts out of him like it was never there in the first place.

He doesn’t recognize the words being said or the situation he’s in or what the hell is happening, but he knows that it’s them, that it’s Mr Stark and other people Peter trusts, and he knows that he’s safe. The sheer relief crashing over him is absolutely dizzying.

The tension drains away, and Peter sags into the cold as Mr Stark holds him up, making sure he doesn’t fall. The lapping of the water isn’t as terrifying now, not with arms there to keep him from slipping under, not with the knowledge that no one will push him beneath, not as his spidey sense quiets all in a rush. God, he’s so tired. He still feels so sick. The burning cold hasn’t faded.

But he can breathe again.

The air comes with difficulty but it still comes.

And god, it feels like a victory.

***

_12:42 AM_

Tony’s sopping wet.

He’s leaving literal puddles on the floor, the water dripping from his jeans, his hands, his hair, t-shirt plastered to his skin and five o’clock shadow bright with droplets. And shit, he’s freezing— the water was the cooler side of room temperature at worst, but sitting in a climate controlled tub of it for half an hour wasn’t exactly a picnic. Peter’s fever came down, which was a win. Unfortunately, Tony’s did too, which was less of a win considering there was no need for that and now he’s just really fucking cold. 

He still tries to follow them out of the bathroom.

“No,” Bruce says, surprisingly firmly. Rhodey’s already out into the hospital room, the kid wrapped in a towel and comfortably situated in his arms, already close to sleep again after the stress of the past hour. “We don’t need you making the tile floor into a DIY slip and slide, okay? Change into dry clothes first.”

Tony opens his mouth to protest, but Bruce is already cutting him off. “We’ll dry off Peter,” he says. “He’s lucid enough to recognize us right now, he’ll understand why you’re not there. He’ll be fine for the few minutes you’ll be gone.”

And shit, because Bruce isn’t wrong. The kid came as close to coherent as he has since afternoon after the worst of the bath passed, and he knows that Peter doesn’t need him now as much as he did earlier. This is probably the best opportunity he’ll get for a break without causing serious emotional distress.

Also, he’s fucking wet. It’s not comfortable. 

Begrudgingly, he agrees.

Rhodey brings him a clean pair of clothes and a towel a few minutes later, and then Tony has the bathroom to himself. It’s dangerously wet too, the bathtub surrounded with puddles from the kid’s panic-fueled splashing, supplies flung haphazardly across the counter and wet towels sitting in heaps across the floor, but it’s quiet, and empty, and it’s a strange reprieve from the chaos it harbored previously. 

It’s unsettling, honestly. Tony grabs the towel, starting to dry off and wanting to get back out into the hustle as soon as he can.

He’s rubbing it over his hair, trying to get the worst of the water sopped up and considering how much masculinity he would lose if he sucked it up and just wrapped himself a towel hat, when he looks up and catches sight of his reflection.

And holy _shit._

He looks awful. 

He’s tired, sure, he knew that without having to see his face as proof, but he didn’t realize how absolutely exhausted he looks. The bags under his eyes are fucking impressive, pallor nearly grey and stubble threatening the neatness of his goatee. He looks like he’s about to drop.

Honestly, he feels like it, too. 

God, this is starting to get to him.

He tears his focus away from the mirror and continues drying off, changing into the new clothes and leaving the wet ones wrapped in the towel. Upon closer inspection, the fresh stuff doesn’t belong to him. Rhodey must have just grabbed them from his own bag rather than going all the way up to Tony’s quarters. Honestly, Tony doesn’t care at this point. The t-shirt is soft and the sweatpants are dry and that’s all he can really ask for. 

He’s really fucking tired. 

Not that it matters, really, but he is. He can feel the exhaustion weighing on him, worn down and worn thin and desperately in need of a break that’s longer than five minutes, but they still have more ground to cover. Peter’s still got seven hours left.

He wants to rest, but Peter comes first. He always comes first. 

And, on the bright side, he finally gets to pee. Small mercies, Tony supposes.

***

_2:06 AM_

The third time Peter’s breath catches in an hour, Tony’s ready.

“It’s not real,” he murmurs immediately. “It’s not real, Peter, it’s not here, it can’t hurt you.”

The kid gasps, the sound choked off and terrified. He presses himself hard against Tony, scrabbing to escape whatever he’s seeing as socked feet slide on rumpled bed sheets, his breathing picking up as the panic sets in. “No,” he says. “No, no no no—”

Tony tightens the arm he’s got around him, reassuring and firm all in one. His chin is settled on Peter’s shoulder, his words barely a breath, nearly a mantra. “It’s not real, kid, I promise. It can’t hurt you. It’s not real, bud, it’s not here.”

“Mr Stark,” Peter whimpers, shaking like a leaf against him, and god, he sounds so young. 

“I’m right here,” Tony says. “I’m right here with you, kiddo. You’re okay.”

Tony’s not entirely sure what Peter’s seeing right now. It’s been a range of things so far— Toomes, Glover, the mugger who killed his uncle, all the bad guys crawling out from the shadows of Peter’s past to haunt him in the light, where Peter has nowhere left to hide.

Peter whines, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face into Tony’s shoulder. 

Tony just holds him tighter.

The hallucinations started up about an hour ago, after his fever dropped from the red, before he came back to full consciousness, about the same time his lucidity faded as quickly as it came. Bruce had tiredly reported that the virus was still progressing— thankfully, he wasn’t feeling it nearly as much as Peter, but things were getting a little fuzzy for him too. The only difference was that Bruce has the good meds on his side to keep things at bay. Peter’s already at max dose and still needs more. 

They make do. 

“Would turning off the lights make this better or worse?” Rhodey murmurs, standing across the room. He’s kept out of range after Peter took a wild, panicked swing at him a while back, caught in the midst of one of the worst episodes and not recognizing him, taking him as a threat, but he still stays close. 

“Worse,” Bruce supplies, voice held quiet. “Shadows won’t help things right now.”

Tony nods, not risking speaking and setting the kid off again. Shadows definitely wouldn’t help things right now. Especially after the collapsed building incident. Peter really doesn’t need that.

Bruce, seeing this, nods in return. “Lights on,” he confirms.

Tony just keeps holding his kid.

***

_4:21 AM_

The fever dreams take the place of the hallucinations once the kid is finally asleep.

His fever is lower than it has been but it’s still high as hell, and the virus is still raging. His mind torments him once his body finally checks out. Tony gets him through the worst of it the best he can. He holds him when the kid will let him and talks to him when he won’t, as constant and as reassuring and as comforting as he possibly can be, staying as close as Peter will allow. 

Words aren’t registering for Peter right now, but tone is, and they use that to their advantage. 

And with this one, Tony’s got backup.

They take shifts. Bruce perches on the hospital bed nearest to the kid’s, telling stories of his studies and degrees and the people he’s met along the way, of his travels, of old Avengers missions, while Rhodey stands at the foot of the bed, letting loose on the mass majority of embarrassing college stories Tony wishes he could forget but hey, time turns tragedy into comedy and he’s not one contradict the natural progression of things. Peter reacts well to both of them. His heart rate is the steadiest when he’s being spoken to, even if their voices can never rise above whispers. The nightmares begin to ease when they stop leaving him in silence. 

Tony never leaves the kid’s side. He slid back in behind him during one of the worst night terrors a little while back, taking whatever his mind’s torturing him with and trying to contrast it with something real, and he hasn’t moved since. He doesn’t even know what he talks about. It still seems to work.

He’s the only one able to get through to the kid during the darkest points.

Quietly, firmly, determinately, they keep on keeping on.

***

_5:46 AM_

Rhodey falls asleep on the floor. Bruce falls asleep on the spare hospital bed. Peter falls asleep on Tony.

Tony doesn’t dare close his eyes.

***

_6:33 AM_

He falls asleep anyway.

***

_8:04 AM_

He wakes up and holy fucking _shit_ because—

—because, god, they made it. 

He made it. 

***

_9:41 AM_

Peter wakes up slow. 

It’s a gradual process, starting with the realization that the sheets no longer feel like sandpaper against his skin. They’re crumpled and askew, but soft again, manageable, no rougher than normal. His memories of last night are fuzzy at best and straight up missing at worst but he knows that a lack of pain is a good thing. 

The same goes for the sounds, and the light. The typical hospital room noise is still there but it’s not as deafening as he remembers it, the light bright but no longer blinding. He blinks slowly, carefully, gaining his bearings and taking it easy on the off chance that any sudden movements might bring back any of the shit he remembers going down to, but everything stays peaceful. Quiet. Calm.

And thank everything holy for that. 

Blearily, he swings his focus around the room, taking stock and trying to piece together the broken fragments of what he remembers of yesterday. Quietly, he notes the unmade bed beside his, the countless empty cups scattered around the counters and surfaces, the IV line still leading into his arm, and Mr Stark, perched on a chair to his right and scrolling on his phone with one hand, a cup of coffee in his other. 

“You’re not supposed to be drinking that.”

His voice comes out terrible, dry and painful and hoarse, but it’s enough to make Mr Stark nearly drop the coffee. 

His gaze snaps up to meet Peter’s, half stunned, half unbelievably relieved, all entirely exhausted. “Kid,” he breathes. “Hey. Hey,” he leans forward, setting his phone aside, holding the styrofoam cup like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth, “how you feeling?”

“Better,” Peter croaks. 

“Still hurting at all?”

“Nah. Not like before.”

Mr Stark seems to sag just slightly with the confirmation, like the concept of Peter being in any more pain is one that he just doesn’t want to mess with at the moment. “Thank fuck,” he murmurs. “God, kid. You scared the hell out of us, you know that? Look at me. I’m practically a priest now. Look what you did.”

Peter huffs a weak breath of a laugh. The small sound still hurts to some extent, but in a gentler way, duller, the same way trying to pick up something heavy the morning after a rough patrol might feel. “Whoops,” he says. “Rhodey and Bruce already at the seminary?”

“Down the hallway, both passed the fuck out,” Mr Stark corrects. “Bruce’s fever broke a little under an hour before yours did, so he’s sleeping off the last of it now. Rhodey just saw his opportunity to rest and snatched it before it was gone.”

“Were you guys up all night with me?”

Mr Stark hesitates, then, just for a second. “Most of it,” he says, and immediately, Peter knows he’s missing something. There’s something in Mr Stark’s face, in his voice, something sheltered and hidden, and Peter can’t quite recognize it for what it is. 

Peter’s brows pull together just slightly, creasing in question as he sorts through the memories he’s got of yesterday. There’s not a whole lot there, honestly, but he remembers enough of it to know that it kind of fucking sucked. He remembers the ice. The beeping, the sheets. The fucking oxygen mask, god, fuck that thing. 

And then he remembers Mr Stark. 

He remembers the nightmares, the hands and the voices and the arms holding him together at the exact moments he most felt like he was about to shatter. He remembers the fingers threaded in his hair, the soft words whispered in his ear, the constant reassurance that he wasn’t alone. He remembers burning and he remembers the hands that soothed the fire away.

“You were up all night with me,” he states.

Mr Stark’s expression softens. “Most of it.”

“You have to be exhausted,” he murmurs, and shit, he can feel the tears welling, he’s still so tired and wrung out and all the emotions are hovering right there at the surface like they always are after good drugs and scary experiences, but god, Mr Stark was always there. He was always fucking _there._ “Oh god, Mr Stark, you have to be—”

“I’ve got coffee,” Mr Stark interrupts, soft and fast, and his eyes are bright too and he looks so fucking exhausted but he tries on a smile anyway, as shaky and fragile as it is. “I’m wide awake, trust me.”

Peter laughs and it comes out like a sob. “Pepper’s gonna kill you.”

“You’ll get the inheritance.”

And then Mr Stark’s laughing too and it’s a desperate, worn thin sound but there’s enough relief in it to keep it light and god, Peter’s so fucking grateful.

Yesterday sucked but it’s morning, it’s _morning_ and there’s sunshine streaming through the windows and Rhodey and Bruce are getting the rest they deserve and May never had to worry about any of this shit and the world seems so much brighter and they’re _okay_ now.

It’s okay now.

And hell if that doesn’t sum it all up.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have the time and are willing, please consider dropping me a comment telling me what you think! Or, if you'd like to comment but aren't sure what to say (a perennial problem of mine), please feel free to just tell me about something good that's happened to you lately. Big stuff is awesome but little things are just as appreciated, whether it be the great coffee you had yesterday or the cool dog you saw last week. Bring on the good vibes :)
> 
> Thank you you so much for reading, and have an epic day!


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